


A Few Years Ago In A Galaxy About Three Lightyears Away From The Milky Way

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, Father-Daughter Relationship, Jaskier ain't doing too well guys, Jedi/Mandalorian Forbidden Romance, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, also Geralt is very very very angry, because I'm fucking trash, thankfully Ciri and Geralt are supportive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23656867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: Star Wars AU. Just. I don't know, it's a Star Wars AU.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 59
Kudos: 162





	1. Jaskier

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to say I'm sorry but actually I'm not, this was FUN

“So what’s _this_ thing?”

Jaskier lunged and snatched the rifle from Ciri’s curious fingers, shoving it back on its shelf. “A weapon you shouldn’t be touching because it’s mine,” he replied shortly.

“Oh,” she said, blinking in surprise. Then she frowned. “But you don’t like weapons.”

“Exactly. Geralt, your daughter is being snoopy!”

“ _Our_ daughter,” Geralt called back in irritation, before rounding the corner. He’d shed that ridiculous cloak and gotten oil-stains on his cream-colored tunic. Not that it mattered; Jaskier had built a clothes droid for him almost as soon as he was allowed aboard Geralt’s ship. “You signed the agreement too.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes as Ciri grinned. He hadn’t wanted to be a father—he knew too much about raising children, since _someone_ had had to mind the foundlings—but Geralt had signed the agreement and Jaskier had been forced to follow his lead, because two signatures were required. Raising a princess in secret required more than one parent, apparently.

Ciri had taken to the ship immediately, and Jaskier had shown her how to maintain the parts she was allowed to explore. He had no doubt that she would soon learn to circumvent his protections and get into the rest of the ship. In fact, he was planning on it. If he didn’t find evidence of her tampering by the end of the week, he’d have to give her another nudge.

She wasn’t supposed to open the weapons cupboard, but the lock on that was easy enough to crack. Jaskier had had to beg for even that much protection, and Geralt still didn’t understand.

At least she hadn’t found the helmet.

“Alright, young lady,” Jaskier said as he closed and locked the cupboard, not even trying to hide the code, since she’d cracked it already. “I believe, since Geralt has emerged from the engine room, that it is lunch time. Would your highness prefer a sandwich or a stew?”

Ciri brightened, though he knew she hadn’t forgotten the weapons. “Stew!” she replied, “And you’re not supposed to call me that, remember?”

“As your father, I can give you whatever nickname I want,” Jaskier answered loftily, and scooped her up in a hug. She hadn’t known how to react when he’d first done this, because no one had carried her since she was very small—which saddened Jaskier, because he had always liked showing affection to the children in his care—but now she knew that the correct thing to do was hug back, and she did so tightly. “You may not be _the_ princess right now, but you’re still _my_ princess.”

“It’s only been a month!” she objected, but he could tell she was smiling. How long had it been since someone had loved her without distance? “This isn’t even home yet!”

“Give it time,” Jaskier answered, putting her down again. “It took me a year, and that was _after_ I got Geralt to talk to me.” He flashed Geralt an impish grin and Geralt frowned, but didn’t say anything. “Now. Lunch.”

Geralt elected for a sandwich, wolfing it down at the counter before going to the cockpit to make sure of their course. Ciri commented on the meat in the stew and how it was even more tender than the stuff she’d had at the palace, and Jaskier replied with some amusement, “That’s because you only ate domestic meat. This is wild meat from one of the beasts Geralt slew a few days ago; it’s tough at first, but after a few hours stewing, it’s tender as anything. The vegetables are ones we grew on the ship.”

“I don’t like these orange ones,” Ciri commented dubiously, stabbing a carrot chunk with the edge of her spoon. “They’re sweet.”

“Carrot, dear one, those are carrots. They’re sweet because these are heirloom seeds, untouched since the first crop was gathered and brought from the next galaxy over. If you had carrots at the palace, they were probably the bitter kind that need to be boiled on their own first.”

Ciri frowned at the carrot, then looked up at Jaskier. “Why do you call me pet names?” she asked. “We’ve only known each other for a month.”

Jaskier shrugged. “I used to take care of children your age when I still lived at home, with my family. It’s mostly second-nature. But also you’re just too darn cute.” He reached over and gently pinched her cheek, grinning as she slapped his hand away. “It’s nice to have a kid aboard. Now Geralt will have _two_ people pestering him into taking care of himself!”

~

Jaskier was supposed to sleep in a repurposed closet. But after a few too many times he’d stayed in Geralt’s room to tend him after a particularly perilous wound, Geralt had grudgingly allowed him to set up a cot in the corner.

That had lasted three weeks. Now they shared the bed, and the cot was put away unless one of them was angry.

And now Ciri had the second bunk, across the hall from Jaskier and Geralt, which used to be absolutely unusable because a leak from the engine had coated the floor and walls in grime. But as soon as Jaskier had found out that Ciri was joining them, he pushed up his sleeves and scrubbed the room down until it was spotless, and even dug up and cleaned a trunk that used to store scraps, so she would have somewhere to put her things. She had been dubious, but after a week, she seemed to have settled in.

After lunch, Jaskier gave Geralt a little kiss and took over piloting. He was an adequate pilot, and since Geralt now allowed him to steer from time to time, he was getting better. Geralt would take over Ciri’s education for the next few hours, teaching her to feel and control the Force. She wasn’t strong enough in it to be a Jedi, but she was strong enough to need training. Geralt would teach her to shoot next time they touched down on a planet for a few days.

Jaskier flexed his fingers nervously on the joysticks. Shooting. Geralt had been startled when he learned that Jaskier was a better shot than him, but had decided it didn’t matter. Anyone who came from Mandalorian stock would be a good marksman.

Jaskier focused on avoiding an asteroid field to push back thoughts of Before.

They had enough food onboard to last a while, and the ship had solar panels, but there was a leak in the water-pipes that needed to be repaired immediately. So Geralt had chosen a planet that he knew had a place to buy parts. Ciri was to stay out of sight, although the fact that her sacred markings could be hidden with cosmetics made it easier to hide her. Jaskier was hoping to scrounge up some hair dye as well; her blond locks should take color well. He didn’t agree with Geralt’s wish for her to hide for months. She should be allowed to breathe fresh air and feel sun on her skin. And this planet was supposed to be too small and scant in resources to be interesting to any of the factions who wanted control of the rich lands of the last quadrant.

They did not reach the planet before the sleep-cycle. Ciri got into the cockpit, where she was _not_ allowed, to give Jaskier a kiss on the cheek and say good night. He couldn’t help smiling and returning the sentiment.

Geralt came back when she was in bed and settled in the seat behind Jaskier. “Are you going to come to bed?” he asked.

“Maybe,” Jaskier replied, skirting a gravity well. He couldn’t feel the Force, but when the joysticks twitched in his light grip, he knew how to move the ship. “We’re almost there, right?”

“A few more parsecs.” Silence. Then Geralt said, “Go sleep, Jaskier. I’ll take over.”

“No. You stayed up last night, it’s my turn.”

Geralt grunted, then stood, ran his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, and left the cockpit.

Jaskier let his mind drift, as he dodged space debris and finally spotted their goal, glowing blue-green-white in the light of its sun. Luckily they were coming into it on the right angle; they wouldn’t have to chase it, just circle it a few times to find the coordinates. It still made him feel odd. Eleven years of raising little ones, two years of bounty-hunting, ten years of running… from the past, from his brethren, from tying himself down.

Three years with Geralt. Strangely the happiest of his life. Jaskier smiled at his own foolishness. Strangely? No, there was nothing strange about it. Geralt was… he was what Jaskier needed. A connection, someone to care for, but also someone to protect him, someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions, someone who would just blink when Jaskier showed an unexpected flash of usefulness. Geralt hadn’t wanted Jaskier on board, but he couldn’t deny that his ship ran much more smoothly now that Jaskier was maintaining it. And if Geralt was too hurt to move, but they had to hold off enemies, well… Jaskier was still pretty good with a blaster.

And there was Roach, too.

As if called by his thoughts, something scratched at the door, and Jaskier grinned as he hit the button to open it. Roach flowed in, and squeezed between the seat and the switchboard to rest her head on his leg and demand pets. Very carefully, Jaskier let go of the joystick and obliged her, grinning again as she purred.

Roach was a manka cat. She’d been the runt of her litter, though she was still quite big enough to make any enemy wary. Geralt kept her fangs lovingly filed, and fed her only the best carcasses, and if there was no fresh meat, he fed her from the stores in the freezer, heated and dunked in gravy. Roach had been very surprised when Jaskier’s reaction to her had not been fear, but to gasp in delight and drop to his knees to coo at her in his own language and give her quality pets and scratches. She had decided she liked him, and that was when Geralt agreed to let Jaskier on his ship.

“You have a way with animals,” Geralt had grunted.

“Oh, mankas are alright,” Jaskier had replied, his hands disappearing in her thick fur. “Never met a manka who didn’t love attention. Goodness, you are such a lovely little lady, aren’t you, Roach? Yes you are!”

“Stop baby-talking my cat.”

But Roach was already in love with Jaskier and that was fine.

Roach patrolled the ship while everyone else was sleeping. And when everyone was awake, she was either glued to Geralt’s side or sleeping on his bed. Such a loyal darling. Jaskier scratched her ear and smiled again as she huffed happily.

Something hit the side of the ship. It was only a little something, a small shiver, but Jaskier had fit the sensors himself, and he pulled up the view from the button-camera immediately.

Fuck. Another Jedi, possibly an envoy. They had sent a light projectile, probably because they couldn’t Force-speak Geralt or whatever. Jaskier scowled and opened a voice-only line, pinging their satellite until someone answered.

“Is this Jedi Geralt?” an unfamiliar, rather flat voice asked.

“Depends who’s asking,” Jaskier replied irritably. “I just fixed that plate, by the way. If you damage this ship I will set Roach on you.”

“May we have visuals, sir? You are not Jedi Geralt.”

Of fucking course he wasn’t. But he was never showing his face on a virtual screen again. Not after Endor. “No. Roach, go get Geralt.”

Roach growled, but padded out of the cockpit. The other Jedi ship was closing in.

“Who are you if not Jedi Geralt?” the flat voice demanded.

“Like I’ll tell a stranger,” Jaskier snorted. “I don’t recognize you, either.” He glanced at the screen again, frowning. “You’re in Yennefer’s ship.”

“Well...” said the flat voice, and then someone familiar interrupted them.

“Rask! Get out of my seat! I swear to the gods, I leave for one hour… that’s Geralt’s ship.”

“Yennefer!” Jaskier replied with false merriment, “Hello! Why the hell are you following us?”

“Jaskier, you mutt, why are _you_ flying Geralt’s ship?”

“He needed sleep. Answer my question, please.”

“Ugh, fine. I received orders to find you after the diplomatic mission failed. You have cargo that the Order wants to meet.”

“Ah, well, that’s too bad,” Jaskier sighed, hiding how his gut clenched and his heart lurched. No, please, they had only had her for a month and he already loved her so much. “We haven’t taken on new cargo since we last landed on a planet to hunt. Who was Rask?”

“My dumbass padawan,” Yennefer replied sourly. “I need to talk to Geralt.”

“He’ll be here soon, I can hear him.” It wasn’t so much ‘hearing’ as knowing to the minute when Geralt would be dressed, out the door, down the hall, and in the cockpit. “Sent Roach to get him.”

“That damn cat is too smart. How are you holding up? I heard Geralt’s been playing diplomat more often these days?”

“Ah, it’s not so bad,” Jaskier replied. “I get to kick back and relax while he deals with assholes who think having money is a personality. Oh, by the way, there’s this spa on Alderaan, absolutely brilliant—”

“Out of my chair, Jaskier.”

“Of course. Talk to you later, Yenn!” Jaskier turned, stood, kissed Geralt’s cheek very lightly, and sauntered out and down the hall to their room. Ciri opened her door a crack when he reached it, and he turned away from his own room to ask, “What’s up, love?”

“They know I’m here,” she whispered, her eyes huge in a bone-pale face. “I could… I could _feel_ her through the Force.”

Jaskier tensed. “Did you get an impression from her?” he asked. “Anything distinct?”

“Purple. She felt purple.”

Jaskier pursed his lips, his gut clenching harder. “I know who that is,” he replied softly, “And I hope to the gods she listens to Geralt. For now, stay in your room, keep your shields up, and we’ll let you know what happens.”

Ciri nodded, then hesitated, before blurting, “Will you stay in my room with me until Geralt comes back?”

“Of course, love.” Jaskier reached up to the nearly seamless panel he’d put above her doorway, let it scan his thumb, and when it opened, he took down his hidden blaster. He hated touching it, but his training was hard to break. Always have a weapon handy. Always. He stepped into Ciri’s room and sat on the small stool he’d made for her, while she shut and locked the door, then sat on her bed and pulled her knees up to her chin. She was wearing her trousers under her nightgown and had gotten out the knife Geralt had bought for her.

“Who is the purple lady?” she asked, wrapping her arms around her legs.

“Her name’s Yennefer, she’s a Jedi too. She’s a chancellor of sorts. She’s a quarter Duro, so a lot of people think she’s stuck-up because of that—I assure you, she is not. It’s because she’s beautiful and people are scared of her. _I’m_ not, but then again, she’s the one who saved my life, back when Geralt didn’t like using the Force for anything except detecting immediate threats. So I’ve seen her soft side. She _hates_ that,” Jaskier added with relish, and Ciri giggled. “She’s also gentle with kids usually; if we can manage to convince her you’re just a stray we adopted, she’ll spoil you as rotten as she can. She’ll also protect you with her life.”

“Why is she here?”

Jaskier shrugged. “All she told me was that her diplomatic mission failed and she was told to intercept us because we have cargo that the Council wants to meet. I think that means you, but I hope not. They abolished that stupid law about Jedi marrying, they should’ve gotten rid of adoption prohibitions too.”

“You’re scared she’ll know I’m a princess.”

Jaskier leaned his elbow on the tiny table and sighed. “Yes. There’s really no telling with her; she’s loyal to the Council, to a point, but everyone else? She doesn’t care. She’ll do what she thinks will serve the Order. The Council let her because they’re a bunch of power-drunk fools.” Jaskier paused, and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, Ciri. This is my own opinion; I shouldn’t be dumping it on you.”

Ciri cocked her head. “Do you like the Jedi?” she asked, a tiny frown on her face.

“No,” Jaskier answered firmly. “They’re out of control, and their propaganda is too strong. I saw what they did when they stormed my family home. My parents wanted to keep my brother at home, maybe train him, maybe not, but they wanted to keep him, because they loved him. The Jedi took him anyway, and let their droids kill my parents. Bandits should be exterminated, was the thought process. Never mind that my parents had never killed or harmed; we lived with bandits, so we were bad and deserved death. It was only luck I got picked up before the droids found me.”

“Why do you love Geralt, if you hate Jedi?”

Jaskier looked away, drawing circles on the tabletop with his fingertips. Why _did_ he love Geralt? Because he wasn’t a Jedi, not like the Order. He was more like honorable pest control. And… he was Geralt. There was just so much to love about him.

“Because he’s different,” Jaskier said slowly, because this was an important talk, and he had to be truthful. “Because he doesn’t follow the Council mindlessly, nor is he like Yennefer, doing whatever he wants just because he can and he thinks it will turn a profit. He helps because he hates when decent people are hurt and bad people get away with terrible things. Not because he was told that, but because he _believes_ it. He tries to see every angle—that’s why he’s a diplomat as well as a kind of pest control. He can see every reason, and he knows how to weigh them, to find the people and angles that want to help and those who want to hurt. He’s a master of ethics and morals, and even when people claim he doesn’t have any of his own, they usually admit that he’s right.” Jaskier smiled a little. “And he took me in, even when he didn’t want to, because I was in trouble and I could help him. He probably hated me those first few months, when we were keeping secrets and couldn’t trust each other. But… it’s been three years, now, and not once has he turned against me because of who I am or what I was.”

“You were a Mandalorian.”

Jaskier stopped smiling.

“It wasn’t that hard to put together.” Ciri rocked on her bed, watching Jaskier closely. “The weapons everywhere, the way you walk, the language you speak when you baby-talk Roach—and I saw the helmet. Why did you bring it all with you, if you’re trying to run?”

“I really wish you weren’t so observant,” Jaskier muttered, trying to buy time so he could think up a good lie.

“It comes with living in a court. Are you going to tell me the truth?”

“...No. I think that’s a talk for another night, Ciri.”

“Alright.” She rocked some more, looking thoughtful, then asked, “Will you sing for me?”

Jaskier lifted his head and grinned. “That, I can do. What bawdy tales of bloodshed do you wish tonight, dear one?”

Ciri grinned back. “Anything about the sea,” she answered.

“Oh, have I got a good one for you, then!”

Geralt opened the door about halfway through the ballad of the mercenary who slayed a sea monster by being swallowed and then blasting his way out, and said bluntly, “She’ll meet us when we touch down. Ciri, practice your accent. Try to speak more like Jaskier. We’ll say you’re from the same planet. Jaskier, bring your blasters, and some armor.”

Jaskier’s stomach sank, but he nodded anyway. The armor wasn’t so bad; he wore it fairly often, when they weren’t being hosted by rich fools in safe palaces. It was dented in places, but it was good armor.

Geralt paused, looking at Jaskier critically. Then he asked, “Can you take up the helmet for a day?”

Fear washed over Jaskier, leaving him cold and numb, but he still nodded again. Geralt never asked unless he had good reason, and it always turned out useful.

Geralt stepped in just far enough to run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair briefly, then said briskly, “I’ve set the autopilot. It’ll wake us in three hours. Jaskier, are you still up for piloting the rest of the way?”

Jaskier managed a small smile. “Yes, I’ll be fine. Go to bed, silly, I’ll come in a few minutes.”

Geralt scowled faintly and left, closing the door quietly as he did. Jaskier took a deep breath and stood, automatically going to holster his blaster—except there was no holster on his belt, and for a disorienting second he felt a surge of panic. Where was his holster? Where was his rifle, his armor, his helmet—

No.

He walked over to kiss Ciri’s forehead, said, “It’ll be alright, love,” and left her room. When it was locked, he returned his blaster to its hiding spot above the door. Then he buried his face in his hands and started shivering so hard his teeth rattled.

Fuck. He needed to get this under control. He needed to not panic when they touched down.

Not that he ever panicked as soon as the helmet was on his head. As soon as it lit up, the many sensors and screens and vision enhancements, his fear would ease, and he became as cool and distant as he had been before he ran away.

Yennefer said it was a trauma response. Jaskier didn’t care, as long as it kept up.

Finally, he entered his and Geralt’s room, and was immediately scooped up into Geralt’s arms and kissed senseless.

Two hours later, Jaskier was thoroughly exhausted, but his eyes were bright and he wasn’t frightened anymore. In fact, he was smiling as Geralt snored gently against his shoulder. Geralt always denied the snore strenuously, but Jaskier didn’t mind it. It was comforting, after all this time. If Geralt was snoring, he was truly asleep, and that meant it was safe.

Jaskier hummed softly, a little ditty he’d learned from his mother that he had taught the other foundlings. Most of them had been so traumatized that they were desperate for love, care, a shoulder to cry on. As soon as Jaskier was twelve, he was given charge of the other foundlings, and the adults had often scolded him for being so free with his affection. But when another sobbing nine-year-old was passed to him, he couldn’t help it. He remembered his mother and father singing to him, and he remembered that other children were soothed by singing, and he remembered the others in the enclave telling him he had a voice like an angel (whatever those were)… and he found himself rocking whatever child was in his arms, singing softly until they calmed enough to ask him what was going on.

He was good at explaining, too, patiently, that the foundling was safe, now, and the other Mandalorians were going to teach them to protect themselves, and they didn’t need to worry about their next meal, their next hug, their next safe night asleep. The Armorer liked him, and let him go several years past normal without armor, because the children, foundling and bloodkin, responded better to people who weren’t kitted up for killing. Jaskier hadn’t minded. He’d gotten permission to paint his helmet a very specific, calming shade of blue, and the children learned early that that was _his_ color.

He’d since scrubbed most of the paint off to reveal the silver metal underneath, but he left it on some places. To remind himself.

He didn’t mean to stay awake until the autopilot alarm beeped gently. He smacked it to turn it off, and wriggled out of Geralt’s grip. A quick wash, clean clothes… and then his cuirass as well, dull metal alloy that could take more than a few blaster hits. This was the only piece of armor that didn’t make him shaky. The rest could wait.

Making his way quietly to the cockpit, he passed Roach, flowing around a corner and brushing against him briefly in greeting. He stroked her side gently, and they both kept walking.

Autopilot switched off when his grip on the joysticks registered. He could see Yennefer’s ship through the window, now; cream and silver, cruising beside them. He made a face and focused on calculating what angle to go into the planet’s gravity at. The ship computer could do it for him, of course, and he would definitely double-check; but sometimes he trusted his intuition more than the ship.

At this angle, the star that was the planet’s sun was about sixty degrees up from the horizon as he saw it. The planet’s rotation meant that he would have to rotate the ship as well, but that could wait a few more minutes. They were actually approaching much more quickly than expected… the sun’s gravity, probably. Jaskier grimaced and hit three buttons, then typed in a short calculation. The stabilizers shifted, the engine hummed louder for a moment before calming again, and soon the ship was slowly heading out of the sphere of gravity, at a better entry angle. Yennefer’s ship matched him; either the pilot was very good, or Geralt had agreed to a sync-up. He hoped to god it was a sync-up.

Jaskier was feeling rather sleepy now, but that was just from physical exertion. Geralt was _very_ athletic, and that didn’t let up in bed. Jaskier was lucky he could keep up with him. It had been awkward, the first two weeks after the adoption, because they were used to sex whenever; but finally Ciri had told them wearily that it was no worse than when her chambermaid had sex with a footman in the room next to hers, and they might as well stop tiptoeing because their frustration and hesitancy was giving her a headache.

So now they didn’t really hold back, though Jaskier knew Geralt still felt self-conscious. Ciri didn’t seem to care, though.

Time to start pulling up coordinates. Geralt had pre-programmed some into the computer; Jaskier just had to pull them up, calculate trajectory, and input some directions. Sometimes he missed the thrill of podracing, how the single twitch of a joystick was the difference between life and death—but usually he was grateful that, for space travel, all he needed was a working computer, a clear mind, and a knowledge of where to set down.

Yennefer’s ship closed with his; definitely sync-up, then, and if they didn’t get a pilot up front soon, they were going to crash into each other. Jaskier watched tensely, and finally, when he could bear it no more, he pinged their communications again.

“What?” rasped a sleepy, irritated voice; Ben, Yennefer’s favorite pilot. Known for napping on the job, but also for being an excellent evasive pilot. “What are you—oh, fuck.” The faint sound of switches flipping, buttons being pressed, and then a small chime, from both over the link and above Jaskier’s head, as the sync was turned off.

“All’s well, then, Ben?” Jaskier asked, hitting a few switches of his own to turn off sync-up capabilities before anyone else could latch on (not that there was anyone, but still).

“Yeah, yeah, gimme a minute… there.” Yennefer’s ship began to drift slowly away from Geralt’s. “You staying up, Fucko?”

Jaskier grinned. Ben often called people rude names, but he reserved “Fucko” for Jaskier, which he saw as a great honor. “Yeah, couldn’t sleep. Definitely tried.”

“Worry?”

“Not worry. Nerves.” Jaskier didn’t mind that this conversation was being logged on both ships; Geralt wouldn’t care, and Yennefer would just be angry for his next words. “Every moment with Yenn is a moment of wishing I’d never met her.”

Ben cackled. “Which is it? You miss her bed or you hate her guts? No, don’t tell me, I want to figure it out on my own.” A cough, and then, delicately, “Shielded this time?”

“Geralt suggests it.” Jaskier chewed his lip. It wasn’t exactly a _secret_ that Geralt traveled with a defected Mandalorian, but somehow no one seemed to connect the cold mercenary Bird with Jaskier, cheerful musician and companion. No one except Ben, a few of the other Jedi, and every member of the Mandalorian Guild, who had turned from him coldly when Alor the Cutter had ordered it. And now Ciri. “I think I’ll heed his warnings. So be prepared, Ben.”

“Oh, yes, I will be. I’m staying right here on this ship with blasters and smoke-grenades. No adventurin’ for _me_.”

Jaskier had to smile at Ben’s vehemence. Dear Ben, who coolly evaded any attacker, but the minute his ship touched ground he refused to “go adventuring” anywhere he might be in harm’s way. “Ah yes, I should have known you’d say that. Ah—heads up, entering the atmosphere.”

“It’s a go, Fucko.”

They were coming down on the dawn line, the part of the planet’s surface that was coming slowly into light. Jaskier was pretty sure he was the only one who used that term, but that’s what it _was_ , and since Geralt had slowly begun to use it too, he had smugly decided it must be good. They passed the atmosphere, with much creaking on the ship’s part as the pressure outside of it changed; but nothing was buckling or breaking, and Jaskier could feel in the hum of the cockpit that nothing was tripped. So they landed with minimal damage, and Ben maneuvered Yennefer’s ship to land next to them.

The parking space was relatively barren, but marks suggested that it was used frequently. Jaskier rubbed his eyes, yawned, and said hazily, “Alright, Ben, I’m gonna nap. Stay safe.”

“You too, Fucko. Have a good one.” And Ben disconnected. Jaskier did the same, shut everything down, and went to wake Geralt. A nap sounded oh so lovely…

Geralt greeted him in the hall, kissed him deeply, and said, “I changed the sheets. Sleep. I’ll try to get something to dye Ciri’s hair with. But for now, I’m going into town before she can catch me.”

Jaskier smiled and hugged him. “Fair enough, my love. Be careful.”

“I will be.”

Ciri opened her door and watched Jaskier approach, her face searching. How odd, that masking her holy marks made her look so much younger. She’d braided up her hair, too, into one thick tail.

“Jaskier,” she said slowly as he approached, “Is there a Mando’a term for “father”?”

“Of course,” he replied, startled. “Why?”

“If I call you that, do you think people will be more willing to believe I’m your daughter? I feel like there will be less trouble if we say you’re my _primary_ father.”

Jaskier blinked. Then he grinned, and bent down to hug her tightly. “I think so, too. Father is buir. You’d be my ad, daughter. And Geralt says he’ll get something to dye your hair. Also, since you’re my ad, it’s my job to give you weapons.” His throat tightened, but he continued, as he straightened, “There’s enough blasters around this ship; we can find one for you easily enough.”

“Will you teach me to shoot?” Ciri asked. “Geralt says you’re better than him.”

Jaskier almost shuddered. “I… yes.”

Ciri nodded, hugged him, and said, “I’ll get dressed and have breakfast. Are you going to sleep?”

“Just for a few hours, little one. You’ll be fine. You’ll have Roach, and there’s a pistol under the table, fully charged. Do not hesitate to use it on an intruder.”

She nodded gravely, and went back in her room. Jaskier went to his, divested himself of his cuirass and clothes, and fell into bed. He was asleep in minutes.

~

Four hours later, he woke, got up, washed his face, brushed his teeth, and dressed in first lightly padded clothing, then his heavier alloyed chain-cloth. He had earned that much before running, though he hadn’t earned the really good stuff, for the best fighters. Then he put on his armor, making sure of each piece. Greaves, scratched but sound; thigh-plates, also scratched; cuirass, lovingly polished; gloves, bracers; and finally his pauldrons, which took a bit of fiddling, but he got them right eventually. All that was missing was his helmet.

His hands were shaking. He didn’t usually wear all of it at once. But if he was to wear his helmet, he had to.

Jaskier took a deep breath and walked to the canteen.

Ciri looked up from her book as he entered, and her eyes widened. Jaskier smiled tightly.

“Best to be prepared,” he told her, and looked under the table. She had already taken the blaster; good. He straightened again and asked briskly, “How’s the weight of it? Do you think you can handle it for now?”

“It’s smaller than yours,” Ciri replied, apparently knowing exactly what he was talking about.

“Of course. Mine is meant for me; most of them are. Geralt had stronger wrists, but he’s not as adept at switching between weights. The one you took is meant for when the user needs something small and light that still packs a punch. The kickback won’t hit so hard with it. If you were Mandalorian you’d have started on it at age eight—” He stopped, because her eyes were even wider. “What?” he asked, frowning slightly.

“You’re talking differently,” she said. “Your accent.”

“Oh.” Jaskier looked down at his hands, not really surprised, but still uneasy. Geralt had mentioned the same thing. “Well… think of me as two different people, love. When I’m in armor, I’m… well, the name I’m known by is Bird.” He made a face and she smiled. “Bird, the mercenary. When I’m out of armor, I’m Jaskier.”

“Should I practice the accent you have now?”

“Yes. You’re an adiik, now—a Mandalorian child. It’s best to sound at least a little like your buir.”

“Adiik are _young_ children.”

“You’re small enough to pass for thirteen.”

Ciri huffed, and Jaskier smiled. Then she said, very carefully, mimicking his accent perfectly, “Aliit ori'shya tal'din.”

Jaskier smiled wider. “Yes.”

“What does it mean?”

“Family is more than blood. You’re part of our family. I know it probably doesn’t feel that way, but we’ll love and protect and teach you, because you’re our family.”

She smiled back. Her eyes were rather shiny. “Thank you,” she said softly. Then she cleared her throat and nodded towards a package wrapped in paper on the tabletop. “Hair dye. I don’t think I can do it on my own.”

“Lucky you, I know how to dye hair!” Jaskier pulled off his gloves and flexed his fingers. “So, do you want it cut, too, or just dyed? I’m not very good with cutting hair, that’s why mine looks like shit, but I can give you a mostly-straight chop.”

“Um… sure. Not too much, though. I like braiding it.”

“Of course. Let me get a towel so we don’t get dye on your shirt.”

It was a relatively short process; Jaskier cut off just enough hair for it to be noticeably shorter, then opened the dye. Made with masha root. Perfect. It would turn her hair as black as Jaskier’s for a little while. Lucky that she had the same cleft in her chin as him, too, and blue eyes; that was enough to claim that she was his blood-kin. She carefully reapplied the cosmetic cream needed to hide her marks as Jaskier combed out her wet hair—it was the perfectly same color as Jaskier’s after dyeing, although still very wavy. When it was mostly dry, he braided it up into a crescent at the back of her head. A style found all over the galaxy. No one would think it odd.

Then she put on her cloak over her plain clothes that Jaskier had bought for her before she came on board, and Jaskier made a hasty but sturdy holster out of scrap leather for her blaster. There was already a sheath for her knife on her belt.

“We’ll work on shooting later,” Jaskier promised, slinging his rifle over his head. How odd, to feel both shakier and safer, the more he sunk into who he used to be. “For now, we’ll get those parts.”

He put on his helmet, and relaxed, as the red-tinted web of information appeared before his eyes. Yes, the helmet’s eye-slits were long enough for him to see side to side; but he needed the infrared sensors, and the heat registers. With a whispered word, the screens faded into a pink tinge, and he stepped smartly to the door. The heat register showed him that Ciri was following.

Bird the mercenary scanned the area sharply, but there were few people. Two guards at the open door of Yennefer’s ship, but they stepped back visibly when Bird emerged. One person crossing to a speeder a little ways away who hurried their step. Bird walked down the ramp with his hand on his blaster, and when Ciri was on the ground beside him, he pressed a button on his keyfob and the ship closed behind them.

Of course, almost immediately, Roach flowed out from under the ship and took up her place on Ciri’s other side. She was almost as tall at the shoulder as the child; but that just made her a better screen. The three of them made their way to the town, Bird slowing his steps for Ciri. Then he thought of something, stopped level with Yennefer’s ship and demanded of the nearest guard flatly, “Where are the Jedi?”

“Havin’ a meeting a-board,” the man replied, watching Bird warily. “You, uh, you lookin’ to join?”

“No.” And Bird kept walking, with Ciri glancing up at him soberly occasionally and Roach padding silently along too.

The town wasn’t too busy, but everyone who saw them moved out of the way. A Mandalorian, a manka cat, _and_ a girl with a blaster casually visible on her hip? Too dangerous. Almost as dangerous as a Jedi. It wasn’t hard to find their way to a market selling ship pieces. Roach put her ears back and lashed her tail, and Ciri frowned dubiously, but Bird did not let his increased wariness show. These were the rough folks, the scavengers as well as the makers and sellers. More than one small group of people eyed the three of them with calculation, and these were the ones Bird made sure to scan well, so he would know if they got too close.

Ciri did the parts-choosing, with Roach watching her back and Bird watching the salesfolk. They gleaned three good pieces, but no actual bit of pipe that would replace the leak. So Ciri narrowed her eyes, looked around the market, and chose a rather rickety stall run by an aged Cathar. Bird hung back, noting the Cathar’s angry stare. Best not to ruin Ciri’s chances of bargaining.

The Cathar—perhaps a female, since she had no fangs—listened to Ciri, answered her shortly but with a rough politeness, and bargained with her as if she were a full adult not followed by a child of Mandalore. Finally, Ciri got her piece and her price, and Bird handed her the money from his beltpouch.

“I know you, Bird,” the Cathar said suddenly, as she accepted Ciri’s money. “You’re the one who travels with a Jedi.”

Bird inclined his head in assent. Not yet time to speak.

“Your lot have been through here, looking for you. Not a moon past, either. You’re in trouble, Bird,” the Cathar told him, with a small, bitter smirk.

“I can handle trouble,” he replied coolly.

“Ha! I don’t doubt it. But your little one here will need more than you and a Jedi to be safe.”

Bird narrowed his eyes, not that anyone could see. “Why should I believe you?”

The Cathar held out her hands, showing thick scars on her wrists. From shackles, probably. “Because a Mandalorian freed me,” she said frankly, “And I’d rather repay the debt by warning another who seems halfway decent than be indebted to a race of monsters.”

Bird nodded, slowly. “I see,” he said softly. “My condolences.”

She snorted and withdrew her hands. “Huh! Never thought I’d hear _those_ words from a bastard of Mandalore. Thank you for your custom, youngster,” she told Ciri, who nodded and murmured her own thanks.

With the three lumpy packages under Bird’s arm, they returned to the ship, with no upsets.

The guards were still at Yennefer’s ship. When Bird looked at them, they flinched, and one called, “No trouble, Bird, sir! Not here, not at yours.”

He nodded, and shooed Ciri and Roach up the ramp into the ship.

When the door was closed, Bird took off his helmet—and became Jaskier once more.

“Well,” he said, “That was successful.”

And then the helmet dropped from his nerveless fingers and he stumbled to the wall, leaning on it heavily and hugging himself. Oh gods, oh gods, how had he just slid into it like that?

“I’m not from Mandalore,” he mumbled, and squeezed his eyes shut. Blaster fire, screaming, his mother begging for her child, his brother crying—

Being cradled by a woman in helmet and armor, who murmured soothingly to him in a language he didn’t know, tucking him into a speeder and holding him as whoever was driving made for a place far from the hut he’d called home. His first day in the compound, curled in bed and crying, but with one of the older children holding his hand and answering his bewildered questions easily, even the repeated ones.

No… he hadn’t been snatched from his home. He’d been wandering, dazed, terrified, but with the urge to _keep going_. And Sul had found him, and brought him to the compound. He remembered now. Fever, and dehydration, and hunger. He’d taken weeks to stop jumping at shadows, start trusting these faceless people who taught him to hold a blaster with more patience than his father had ever shown him. But they had cared for him. Maybe there had been no love, but they had cared.

Slowly, he came back from fear. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and pushed away from the wall. Ciri was hugging his helmet to her chest, looking frightened.

“I’m alright, love,” he croaked. “Just… I haven’t been Bird in a while.” He divested himself of his weapons, carefully, and led the way to the locked cupboard. When his things were put away, he took his helmet back and tucked it in a back corner. Then, after some thought, he took out his favored blaster again. “Let me take off the armor, and we’ll go practice shooting in the woods. We should be out of the way enough.”

Ciri was better than either of them expected; her coordination was very good. It would be impeccable in only a few months’ time if Jaskier had anything to say about it.

She could reliably hit the buds off of a bush, about five times out of seven, at a distance of two hundred paces. Partly it was the Force sharpening her eyes, but the way she held herself and the blaster, the way she drew it fluidly and with the precise amount of momentum, was all due to her knowledge of herself and what she could do. Jaskier was very proud of her. He barely needed to help at all, simply made sure that she could do the basics.

“Now, I _would_ wait to start you on shooting moving targets for a week,” he told her, when they checked the blaster’s power level (half empty, still enough for two days of practice). “But you’re already coordinated and smooth enough that that’s just silly. You’ll get complacent. We’ll alternate; and in fact, once Geralt is done with Yennefer, we can get him to help. He’s plenty good at blocking blaster beams, and he’ll be a moving target.”

“I can’t shoot at Geralt!” Ciri objected, looking alarmed. “He’s—he’s not—”

“An enemy?” Jaskier suggested. She nodded. “That’s the hard part, Ciri. And it’s the part you need to master fastest. You can’t trust anyone too completely. If someone were to Force-control me—and yes, it’s a possibility—it’s your duty to kill me before I hurt you. I’ll fight it, you know I will, and I’ve overcome it before, but there is too much chance that you’ll need to shoot someone you trust. You need to learn _now_.”

She looked up at him with confusion and sorrow, but he kept his face smoothly sober. She had to learn this. It was important, if she were to survive.

“Geralt never told me that,” she said softly.

“Geralt is an expert at being nonlethal, partly because he trained for it, and partly because he doesn’t believe in needless killing. He’s never been in a scrape that he can’t get out of with as little bloodshed as possible. _You_ , though, love, are _not_ a hundred years old, and _not_ highly trained in nonlethal fighting. He can teach you that. But I was raised to not hesitate, and so help me gods, you will be trained _better_ than I was. So. You won’t hurt him; he’s more practiced than you. But you must learn to shoot without a single thought except your own preservation.” He sighed as she looked down, and hugged her gently. “I know it’s hard, love. I know. But it’s better this way. My kind don’t live long, and Geralt will be unable to protect you once you settle. You have to learn to fight for yourself.”

She dropped the blaster and hugged back, tightly. “Don’t say that,” she said harshly, muffled by his shirt. “Don’t you _dare_ say you don’t live long.”

Jaskier felt the usual urge to bundle her up and keep her safe for all time; but that was a trap. She needed to be self-sufficient. She would hate him if he did that, anyway. “Alright, love. Do you want to take a break? Let’s go have lunch.”


	2. Geralt

Geralt crossed his arms over his chest and glared as Yennefer and her padawan set about sending out the message to the council that they’d caught up to Geralt. The two guards at the door watched nervously and barely moved. Far sooner than Geralt liked, the hologram rose, of the whole Council. They stared at him with accusation, and he stared back, not caring that they disapproved of his charcoal trousers and black kit. They didn’t like when a Jedi took on the clothing of a Sith. Well, Geralt refused to be either, so he might as well signal that he was both.

“We have word that you have a new… companion,” K’tKt said first, his mandibles clicking as his translator spoke in flat, robotic tones. Everyone could understand him, but no one could replicate his language, and he couldn’t speak Galactic Basic. So he had a translator attached to a band around what seemed to resemble a throat for his species. “Where is she?”

“If you mean my daughter, she is currently out of harm’s reach,” Geralt replied bluntly.

Everyone seemed surprised by that, even Yennefer. Padawan Rask, off to one side, openly gaped at Geralt.

“Daughter?” Shhlaff repeated softly; then again, she always spoke softly, since it was either that or a roar loud enough to pop eardrums. She had two sets of vocal cords, and they were very different. “You have a daughter? But you are a Witcher.”

Not for the first time, Geralt cursed the day that spaceship had landed on the Continent and the humans had spent four months prying into the secrets of the Witchers and attempting to convince him he had this mysterious magic called “the Force”. Magic was not for him.

Yennefer had been convinced, and blackmailed him into joining the Jedi. How humiliating, to be put in a room with small children and handed a stick and told to hit the “droid”. How infuriating, that when he got tired of avoiding the blundering children, he’d lashed out at the incessantly buzzing annoyance, and knocked the droid into the wall so hard it was crushed—and no one had believed him.

“It’s the Force, alright,” the damn kobold-looking bastard had said with deep satisfaction.

“It was _not_ the Force!” Geralt had insisted, enraged. “It makes noise, does it not? It smells of metal, does it not?! No hard thing, to kill your little metal toy!”

“It does not make noise.”

“You are deaf! It has mechanical parts, it makes noise!”

That had made the kobold frown. “Your ears are playing tricks on you,” it had insisted.

Geralt had never hit a living being before it hit him, but he had greatly desired to whack the kobold over the head for daring to suggest that Witcher training was actually just the nebulous _thing_ that no one could prove to him. Sorcery, yes, that was a tangible thing that could be measured and seen; but this damn _Force_ …

He snapped back to the present. “She is not my biological daughter,” he said with great reluctance. “I adopted her.”

“Great Goddess, _why_?” broke in Genth, his five compound eyes turning bright orange in confused anger. “If you find a child of the Force, you bring her to us!”

“She does not have the Force enough to be a pawn for the Jedi,” Geralt snapped, quickly growing tired of this. “If you must know why I did not tell anyone, it is because she is my companion’s biological daughter, and we both agreed that she should not be caught up in this bullshit.” He glared at them all defiantly. They didn’t like that he had a companion. He should either wed and then leave the spouse at home, or be alone, except for maybe another Jedi, or a padawan. For some of the Council members, it disturbed them deeply that Jaskier was the same gender as him, and for others, it was simply a sign of weakness.

Geralt used to agree, a companion would slow him down. But now that he had Jaskier, he would _kill_ whoever tried to take him. Slowly, and as painfully as he could manage.

Not that Jaskier wouldn’t get there first. Mandalorians are as adept at unarmed fighting as they are with weapons.

“What is her name?” Leena asked finally.

“I don’t see that it matters,” Geralt retorted.

“We must mark it down for the records,” Leena replied firmly. “Even if she is not biologically yours, she is legally in your care. So. What is her name?”

Geralt fought the urge to shout at them all to go to hell. For one thing, not all of the Council knew what that phrase meant. And for another, they might label him dangerous and a renegade, and Ciri would be even _more_ endangered.

“Triss,” Geralt ground out. “Her name is Triss.”

Yennefer shot him a startled look, but then she was all boredom again.

K’tKt had not missed her look. “Yennefer,” he said suddenly, “Do you have anything to add?”

“Only that I have no opinion on whether it matters or not that he has a child,” she drawled. “Although, I do agree, if she is not strong enough to be a Jedi, why should the Order care about _that_? When she is an adult, she will leave. Maybe she will have children of her own who are strong in the Force.”

“It is not _right_ ,” Brrn muttered angrily. “Children should not be dragged around the galaxy by fighters. What if she were to be injured?”

“We have been putting precautions in place for that,” Geralt said, feeling much in charity with Brrn for once. “We are training her in defense; she is learning to shoot even now.”

Uneasy shuffling among the Council. Shhlaff asked, “Is shooting necessary? She is the daughter of a Jedi. She should be taught peace.”

“One cannot be peaceful if the one attacking them does not believe in peace,” Geralt snapped. Fuck, he was so tired of these people. “If someone tries to harm her, she should know how to protect herself by any means necessary. Are you done with your interrogation? You have all the information you need for a full report.”

A moment of silence. Leena muted the call and the Council spoke quietly among themselves. Geralt waited. He may hate them, but he still have great patience. They would break before he did.

Yennefer pulled out a nail file and began neatening the edges of her nails, unpainted today. Rask shifted from foot to foot nervously. The guards at the door pretended to be statues. Geralt patiently waited.

Finally, Leena unmuted the call. Satcha, with his soft, earnest face, was chosen to tell Geralt their decision. “We have the information, and we will make the report. But Geralt, this is a very serious thing you have done. You should have told us at once.”

“With the civil wars in three quadrants and refugees fleeing to already-crowded planets, and dictators rising to power across the galaxy? I didn’t think you’d have time,” Geralt replied smoothly. He knew half the dictators were aided by the Order. He knew that the Council knew. But he did not know if they would see his jibe for what it was.

“We always have time for anything concerning you,” Genth replied with poisonous sweetness.

Geralt smiled, very slowly and coldly. “You are too kind, sir,” he replied, in his calmest, most reasonable tone. The Council became agitated again, and K’tKt chittered too softly for his translator to pick up. Just so had Geralt looked and sounded before he had taken out his saber and beheaded two traitors to the Order, when the Council dithered over what to do about them.

It wasn’t really fair to frighten them like this. But, well, they had kidnapped him from his home, forced him to join their Order, sent him to die multiple times, and never acknowledged that they’d done any of that, so Geralt didn’t much care if they were scared of him or not.

“That is all, then, Geralt,” Leena said finally, the judge’s final decision. “We will check back in later, when we have created the report.”

The hologram winked out, and Yennefer reached forward and delicately pressed the button to turn off their end of the call. The lights went out, and Rask hurried to slap on the regular lights. Geralt stepped from the circle and glared at Yennefer, who smiled. “So that wasn’t exactly the truth, was it, Geralt?” she asked sweetly.

“It was absolutely the truth,” Geralt replied shortly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He turned the leave, and the guards both pointed their guns at him. He narrowed his eyes at them. It wouldn’t be hard to get past them… it was only a matter of did he want to draw his sword or not. He never used his lightsaber if he could help it; not enough weight, no resistance to its motion, far too easy to overreach because he was used to metal. But there had been one old armorer who knew how to forge a certain heavy element with a form of sorcery that made it impervious to blaster fire… he’d been the one to make Jaskier’s armor and he had gladly made Geralt a sword. Geralt fingered the hilt of that sword now, calculating—

“Geralt, please don’t kill my men,” Yennefer sighed wearily. “I want to talk to you about something other than the girl.”

Reluctantly, Geralt turned away and back to Yennefer, who also stepped down from the platform and sauntered up to him. When she spoke, it was not in Galactic.

<<You lied to them,>> she said bluntly in Common, the language they’d spoken back home, that no one had made a dictionary for yet. <<She’s not his daughter either. I can feel their minds, Geralt. There is no bond.>>

<<The precious Force again?>> Geralt asked bitterly, using the Common word for it because he’ll be damned if he used Galactic and gave it any respect. <<How can it tell there is no bond in their minds when we didn’t even know about her until a month ago?>>

Yennefer opened her mouth, looking impatient—then shut it, puzzled. <<You are right,>> she said softly. <<I have been willfully ignoring my power. Well, that changes today.>>

Before he could stop her, she closed her eyes and pressed the tips of the first two fingers on both hands to her temples. Geralt could feel her sorcery, probing, ignoring Geralt and Rask and her men, searching… and then her eyes opened, and she seemed surprised.

<<They love each other,>> she said frankly. <<As father and daughter, they are connected. Why didn’t the Force notice that?>>

<<Because it’s bullshit,>> Geralt retorted. <<You are a sorceress, and your magic is far more useful than whatever nebulous… _thing_ these people claim gives them power. I have never sensed the Force, I have never seen anyone _use_ the Force; it’s all magic, plain and simple. The Force isn’t real. It’s just a set of rules for sorcery.>>

Yennefer looked thoughtful. <<You have never felt it?>> she asked softly. <<And yet it surrounds you, is thick in your blood...>>

<<I am a Witcher!>> Geralt snarled, finally losing his temper. <<Whatever it is these people have convinced you is out there, it does not touch me, like any other sorcery!>> He took a deep breath and turned sharply to the door again. “ _Move_ ,” he ordered the men harshly, and they quickly got out of his way.

Stomping down the ramp and approaching his ship, he saw Jaskier and Ciri emerging from the woods, holding hands. Ciri looked very different with black hair. She really did look like she could be Jaskier’s child.

They saw him, and their troubled expressions became alarmed. Reckless with anger, Geralt swerved to meet them, and when Jaskier put his hand on Geralt’s arm, Geralt kissed him, hard. When he stopped, he told them both, “We are leaving as soon as the pipe is fixed. I am not staying here a single moment longer than that.”

Jaskier nodded. Ciri looked uncertain, even afraid. Geralt couldn’t bear to look at her. What if he frightened her more?

They boarded the ship. Jaskier hesitated, then said, “Geralt, I felt Yennefer touch our minds. Was she looking for us?”

“She wanted to establish whether there was a connection between you,” Geralt grunted. “And she apparently believes that familial bonds are impossible without blood relation. It’s fine, she’s always been like this.”

“How long have you known her?” Ciri asked.

Geralt shrugged. Fuck if he remembered. “About fifty years on our home planet, and now about two hundred since the Jedi ruined my life.”

“So neither of you like the Jedi,” Ciri noted, looking between them both. Jaskier glanced apologetically at Geralt, but he shook his head and squeezed Jaskier’s hand.

“They stole me from my home and tried to convince me my training was actually the Force,” Geralt said bitterly, “And I’m only just now realizing that they’re absolutely fucking wrong. Did you get the parts?”

~

The next day saw them going in the opposite direction as Yennefer. Geralt had a wonderful, terrible, immensely spiteful idea, spurred by his thoughts of what he had lost when the Order kidnapped him.

He took all of his tan Jedi uniforms and dyed them with the last of Ciri’s hair dye, turning them a dull charcoal grey, and shoved his lightsaber so far into the back of the weapons closet that not even he could reach it. He quietly undid all the Jedi tracking equipment, and made a sheath to go on his back, for his sword. And when Ciri and Jaskier sat in the canteen talking animatedly about music, Geralt walked in and asked, “Jaskier, remember how you said you would love to see my home some day?”

Jaskier blinked at him, startled. And then he noticed Geralt’s gray clothing, and the sword strapped to his back, and how the set of his shoulders was more relaxed than ever… and he leapt to his feet with a grin, his chair skittering backwards.

“Oh, Geralt, that’s perfect!” he enthused. “No one will look for Ciri there, and you can see your family again!”

Geralt smiled back, feeling at peace for the first time since he laid with Jaskier and knew his bard would never hurt him. “Yes. Ciri? How do you feel about it?”

“If it’s half as interesting as you’ve made it out to be, I would love to go,” she answered, with every indication of mischievous glee. “Do they take girls as Witchers?”

“Sometimes. If Triss is still around, she’ll want to teach you sorcery. But if not, I will make sure you get Witcher training. You’ve the mind for it, and Jaskier said you’ve got good control; there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to handle a sword. You can practice with my saber for now. It’s not the same, but if you can get the movements down, you can build muscles in other ways, so you’ll be ready.”

Ciri suddenly jumped up and rushed over to hug Geralt tightly. He hugged back, surprised, but also… warm. Happy. Jaskier laughed and came over to hug Geralt too.

Yes. This felt right. This decision. And he might as well start teaching Ciri the hand-to-hand combat _he_ knew.

**Author's Note:**

> *gets down on one knee* *opens tiny box* *confetti and streamers shoot out along with a full-ass keyboard*
> 
> Will you make me the happiest goblin in the world and write a comment?
> 
> Also: No, I will not be writing a sequel or adding a chapter. I am very sorry.


End file.
